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A weathered skeleton in windy fields of memory, piercing like a knife.

Matsuo Basho

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Matsuo Basho
Age: 50 †
Born: 1644
Born: January 1
Died: 1694
Died: November 28
Artist
Poet
Writer
Vaxjo
Matsuo Basho
Bashō
Bashô
Basho
Matsuo Bashou
Skeletons
Knife
Knives
Memory
Fields
Weathered
Memories
Piercing
Like
Skeleton
Windy

More quotes by Matsuo Basho

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Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old - / These fields and mountains!
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The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
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What is important is to keep our mind high in the world of true understanding, and returning to the world of our daily experience to seek therein the truth of beauty. No matter what we may be doing at a given moment, we must not forget that is has a bearing upon our everlasting self which is poetry.
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For this lovely bowl let us arrange these flowers since there is no rice.
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I felt quite at home, / As if it were mine sleeping lazily / In this house of fresh air.
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How I long to see among dawn flowers, the face of God.
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the universe and its beings are a complementarity of empty infinity, intimate interrelationships, and total uniqueness of each and every being.
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Go to the pine if you want to learn about the pine, or to the bamboo if you want to learn about the bamboo. And in doing so, you must leave your subjective preoccupation with yourself. Otherwise you impose yourself on the object and you do not learn.
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Friends part foreverwild geese lost in cloud
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Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the wise. Seek what they sought.
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The fact that Saigyo composed a poem that begins, I shall be unhappy without loneliness, shows that he made loneliness his master.
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Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
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Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
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Felling a tree and gazing at the cut end - tonight's moon
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Before enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water. After enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.
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Come, see the true flowers of this pained world.
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I am one who eats breakfast gazing at morning glories.
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Ballet in the air... Twin butterflies until, twice white They Meet, they mate
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Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
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Spring rain conveyed under the trees in drops.
Matsuo Basho